I'd just arrived in Baghdad and was walking
through the chaotic streets. It was still light outside, but beginning to grow
dark. I was thinking of moving here; I could learn Arabic; translators were in
big demand here.

A group of perhaps 50 Iraqis came marching
down the street. A couple people walked into a
house and I followed. I entered a spacious living room and sat down. The room
was pleasant but not luxuriant. It didn't seem as nice as my home – I
wondered why – perhaps the high ceilings or the dark paneling on one wall
detracted from the room.

A man and a dark-haired woman were in the
room; she was about 30 years old and was the owner of the house. She was
tall, thin and attractive. I
asked the man and woman if they knew where I could find a place to stay. Even
thought someone
told me that some other people lived in the basement, the man and woman told
me that they didn't have room for me to stay here; obviously I was going to have to move on.
I had some baggage
with me; I began preparing to leave; I pulled out a black belt and put it on.

I looked outside and became frightened by what
I saw: gangs of
people were marauding with
guns through the residential streets. I wanted
to stay here. The woman walked up to me, stood right in front of me and began taking off my belt.
Obviously she wanted me to stay. Now I was sure I was going to stay; going outside simply
wasn't realistic